


glow

by papercranes, unrequited_heartbreak



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Romance, dream is a repair man, george is an android
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papercranes/pseuds/papercranes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak
Summary: “Somebody blessed you, you know,” Dream professes.“Blessed me?”“Whoever designed you, I mean. It’s just beautiful,” he says, slotting a panel into place before moving to the opposite side of George’s neck, releasing a small, warm breath against him. “You’re beautiful.”//dnf android au one shot woo!!
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 145





	glow

**Author's Note:**

> me (unrequited_heartbreak) and kat (papercranes) wrote this together with the prompt "glow mechanical" a few months ago and never got around around to posting it, so here it is finally! i wrote the first half, she wrote the second, and we edited together. hope you enjoy :D

George can’t even remember the last time he needed repairs like this. 

It must have been years ago; living in an apartment and spending every waking second coding doesn’t cause too much wear and tear. He charges, he codes, he oils his joints. Repeat that for months, years, decades—that’s just what life is. 

His memory is meant to be perfect. His model has extra storage space specifically to last a century without a backup. George was a factory malfunction caught too late, they couldn’t replace his memory now without wiping him completely, so he picks and chooses what to remember.

Apparently this is one of the times he chose wrong. 

The subway is packed as usual, or at least what he assumes is usual. Videos on the internet don’t do justice to how overwhelming it is. Even the VR ones with surround sound can’t pick up on the heaviness of everyone’s breath, or the warmth of a stranger’s leg pressed up against yours. There’s a child screaming, somewhere, but he can’t spot them in the fray. 

George fiddles with his phone, checking the name of his stop and comparing it to the panels that line the walls of the train. It’s compulsive, no matter how many times he checks, he can’t stop checking. Maybe that’s another symptom of his faulty memory. Or maybe just a quirk in his code. 

His mechanic’s name is Dream, his manufacturer informed him. It’s unusual for a human. But then again, “George” is unusual for an android. He prays that they won’t treat him like a piece of machinery, the way half of the population seems to. Even now, right in this train car, a mother scolds her child as they peer up at him. The pale blue light shining through his thin cotton t-shirt reflects in their eyes. An expression of wonder rests between their brows, right where they crease. 

He tries not to return their gaze. 

The train slows and he checks his phone, glancing up at the panels again. They match. An animation is sparkling slightly around the text, bold and in a clean cut font. A string of numbers George memorized days ago in his apartment, trying to prepare for interacting with a human for the first time in years. It’s been so, so long. 

People and androids alike start to stir, hoisting up their bags and pulling on their jackets. The knee pressing into his thigh shifts as he gets up, and he misses the warmth that goes with it. He glances back at the person, absentmindedly scrolling through their phone, and frowns a bit. Emotions like this feel weird. They’re much more intense than the ones brought on by cat videos during his charges or the news reporting new deaths every morning. 

They’re less detached, less impersonal.

Something like longing tugs at his chest as he steps through the sliding door to the station; the absence of the stranger’s leg makes the air feel so much colder. Maybe it’s just his magnetic field shimmering and adjusting as he steps through the doors. 

There’s a pod waiting for him near the area where humans can rent bikes and scooters to travel around the city; it’s white and spotless, but they had the mercy to install a little window. Crowds bumble through the streets, past pop up shops and street food vendors. They’re laughing and singing and touching each other. They’re colorful. 

George wonders, if he could cry, would he right now? 

There’s no way to tell. 

The pod comes to a smooth stop, and the door hisses as it opens onto a cozy lobby area. A human receptionist chatters away on the phone. She doesn’t even notice him. 

There’s a man standing next to her desk, tapping his foot. He wears a stained apron and a pair of work gloves; they’re familiar from the training videos he has embedded in his memory card. How to be friendly to your mechanic, how to avoid scaring them. Concepts George has known for ages but never gotten the chance to use. 

The man turns when he steps into the room and smiles widely.

“George? Model 404-FnD?” He pulls off his gloves and reaches out. His hand hovers around waist level, waiting for something. What?

Oh! Handshakes, he knows about those. George sticks his hand out to meet the man’s, shaking it firmly. 

“I’m Dream, your mechanic for today! Follow me to the appointment room, it’s just down the hall.” The man turns and walks away, and George follows on instinct. He drags his feet along the floor, as anxious as an android can get, and turns his head by degrees to admire the colorful decorations plastered across the walls. 

When he arrives at Dream's repair room, he watches as Dream deftly jumps among a mess of tools and materials. The walls are festooned with drills and soldering machines. Nuts and bolts litter the floors.

“Come on,” Dream beckons, appearing from under a table. “I don’t bite.” He smiles; leans against the workbench, spinning a small mechanical saw between his fingers. 

“You’re literally holding a saw.”

Dream laughs, and it could be interpreted as menacing, but George enters anyway. 

“Wear and tear around your torso, neck, and ankles,” Dream notes, smoothing out a piece of printed paper in front of him. Like a prescription. “It’s been a while since your last repair, hm?”

George nods, and Dream begins his work, guiding his hands along the smooth, cold metal lining George’s body. Gently, he lifts the cover to his torso, revealing exposed, frayed wires and burnt out circuits. Without flinching, Dream turns to the wall behind him, searching for the perfect tools with fervor. 

George blinks. Dream had made no comment, heaved no sigh of disappointment like they described in articles about android mishandling. Dream returns with several hex head screwdrivers and a soldering machine before getting to work. He works diligently and carefully, supporting George’s form with his opposite hand propped on the small of his back. 

George recalls the human he was next to on the train, the feeling of sitting next to each other, gone in an instant when he moved. Dream’s hand is warm like she was; it’s uniquely organic. But his touch in particular exudes a sort of care that inspires George’s next words. 

“You’re not like other humans, I think,” he nervously blurts out. Anxiety pulses in waves between the series of wired capacitors and resistors in his brain. 

“Why’s that?” Dream asks. 

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to say that.” 

“No, tell me, I’m interested.” Dream makes eye contact, curiosity shining in his gaze. It begs a question in an expression that’s painfully human, a question of curiosity, of trust.

“You’re talking to me. You just looked me in the eyes. Usually, I—we—dread these visits to the mechanic.” Memories flash before him: stories of silent visits for hours on end, rough handlings. A visit to the mechanic has always been a sore reminder of the system that set the differences between androids and humans, the differences that distinguish one as a person, and one as a machine. 

“Why not talk to you? I’m not going to sit in silence for a few hours,” he says, pointing a screwdriver towards George’s chest. “Treat it like you’re getting a haircut. Just try to enjoy it.”

“I’ve never had a haircut, Dream.” 

“Oh, well maybe you need one,” he waves his hand through the shimmering hologram atop his head. They laugh. 

The hours tick by slowly, but all too fast, and they speak in quiet voices. Night sets, the light from the window dims, and the world begins its slumber around them. The glow of George’s exposed battery creates enough light for Dream to work comfortably. 

George slowly begins to feel more restored, piece by piece, stitch by stitch, he becomes new again. When Dream solders the two wires that simulate his trochlear nerve, his vision suddenly comes into focus. 

Illuminated by soft blue glow, he watches Dream’s face as he works, and notices all the little details. Freckles produce small fireworks along his forehead. His nose is slightly crooked to his left side. Shadows of the light dance along his cheekbones and ringlets of hair. His face is perfectly imperfect.

George is suddenly shaken out of the trance. “Somebody blessed you, you know,” Dream professes. 

“Blessed me?”

“Whoever designed you, I mean. It’s just beautiful,” he says, slotting a panel into place before moving to the opposite side of George’s neck, releasing a small, warm breath against him. “You’re beautiful.”

George is thankful he can't blush. His gaze slowly wanders to Dream’s eyes, only to find them trained on him already. For a moment, they stare.

There’s a feeling tugging at him, pulling him towards Dream. The mechanic’s face is illuminated under the warm light. 

George knows how electric fields and paramagnetic attraction work. He looks to the metal chair Dream sits in, chunky and cold. He looks around the room, to silver screwdrivers that hang from ribbons from the ceiling, to bouquets of metallic gold sheets clumped together in boxes. 

He looks back at Dream, whose mouth is twisted up in a grin. His breath is still fanning against George’s skin every few seconds. His eyes almost sparkle.

For the first time, George isn’t sure where the pull is coming from.


End file.
